Closer Home (2 page)

Apart from me and Dale, I’m guessing the only person in this room who holds any true grief over Callie’s passing is Ariel. She sits on the other side of Dale, eyes straight ahead, shoulders rigid. Shadow, seated on the far side of her, tries to put his arm over her shoulder, but she shrugs him off without so much as a glance in his direction.

When the procession finally ends, a young man mounts the steps to the podium and stands beside the coffin in a too-long silence, just enough for dramatic effect. Black suit, black hair, face so pale he could play a vampire without stage makeup. When his audience stops rustling and coughing and goes still with waiting, he begins to deliver the eulogy in a mellifluous voice. Not much resemblance to the truth of Callie’s life in what he proclaims in heartfelt tones. The polished speech carefully skirts any mention of the life my sister led before she became Callie Redfern. I wonder what would happen if I bounced up out of my seat and told them the truth.

Her real name is Callista Jean Redding, and wherever she picked up that southern drawl, it sure wasn’t her hometown, which is about as far north as you can get without crossing into Canada. It’s true enough that her father is deceased, but her mother is still alive, more or less, putting in the hours and days until death shows up to claim her. And, of course, there’s me, the sister who pretty much raised her.

The truth is, Callie orphaned us, not the other way around.

After the service, there are cameras again, and an overwhelming press of bodies and voices. My undertaker friend gently grasps my arm and draws me away, and I’m more than grateful to duck into the back of a limo when he opens the door. Ariel is already in the backseat. Before I have time to ask what they’ve done with Dale and Shadow, the door closes and the driver shifts into gear.

Ariel glances at me and then turns her whole body away, keeping her gaze focused on the window. I know I need to reach out to her, but two intersections go by and I’m still fumbling for the right words.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” I offer, finally. My voice comes out like I’m a chain smoker with a twenty-year habit.

“This is such a sham,” she says, biting off each word between her teeth. “I can’t believe you went along with it.”

I want to tell her that the funeral had a life of its own from the beginning. Callie’s publicist. Her agent. Her adoring public. What do I know about planning funerals for the rich and famous?

“She hated horses,” Ariel says. There’s accusation in her tone, and I blink, failing to see what a horse has to do with anything.

“Are you blaming me for how she died? Because that’s not fair.”

Ariel rolls her eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

I’m at a loss, but then we pull into the cemetery and I see for myself what she’s talking about.

Men are lifting Callie’s coffin out of the back of a hearse. But instead of carrying her to the grave in dignified pallbearer tradition, they heave the coffin up onto what looks like a parade float. It’s a flatbed wagon, draped in black fabric, strewn with crimson petals. A horse waits between the traces. The horse is golden, a palomino quarter horse, exactly the type that killed her. Roses have been woven into its mane and tail. In the distance I can see the other cars in the funeral procession driving down a different graveyard lane, but the camera people are all right here. Waiting.

“She hated that horse.” Ariel’s voice sounds all at once younger, vulnerable.

“Is that . . . I mean, surely not?”

“He didn’t even tell you.” Her voice wobbles a little. “Fuckin’ Ricken.”

I think she’s going to break down, finally, and I start running through responses in my head. A pat on the back. An arm around the shoulder. But Ariel is made of tougher stuff. She draws her hand across her eyes and takes a shaky breath. “Come on. Let’s get this shit over with.”

Just like that, she’s out of the car, ignoring the cameras and the voices clamoring for comments. Her back is straight, her chin high. She carries herself as if she owns the world. I lack her confidence. I’ve managed somehow to snag my stocking. There’s a run starting at the inside of the left ankle, stretching halfway up my calf. I’ve got a blister rubbed into the heel of my right foot. And I can feel my upswept hair slipping off to the side, the combs not quite holding. Should have left it down, worn flat sandals. Hell, maybe I should have just worn my jeans.

Maybe I’ll just stay where I am.

But a man opens the limo door and holds out his hand. Not my undertaker from earlier, but he wears the same slicked-back hair and the same look of manufactured grief. His breath also smells like mint. Probably breath and hair are standard-issue, as much a part of the undertaker uniform as the inevitable black suits.

“Right this way,” he says, and I let him lead me toward the wagon. Flower-bedecked chairs flank the coffin. A young man in work jeans and a T-shirt lugs over a set of portable steps.

My undertaker guide offers me his hand. “May I help you up?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He arches one perfect eyebrow. Does he pluck them, or do they grow that way? The rest of his face is smooth and so hairless I wonder if he waxes instead of shaving. Men in my world don’t do this sort of thing, but here in Vegas, anything is possible.

“The family rides with the deceased to the grave site. Much easier than walking, yes?”

His lips jerk up at the corners as though he’s just ordered himself to smile. But his eyes have scanned my legs in a purely businesslike way, and I feel like he’s registered both the blister and the stocking run.

“We’ll walk.”

“Is there a problem?” A man nudges the undertaker aside, clearly signaling that he’ll take it from here. He’s short, the top of his head about level with my chin. No black suit for him; he’s wearing something charcoal colored and perfectly tailored. Black shirt, skinny tie, a pair of dark glasses obscuring his eyes.

“Annelise! Oh my God, you look so much like poor Callie.” He takes both of my hands, leans up, and makes a kissing gesture aimed at my cheek, missing by at least an inch. I know who he is, although we’ve never met: Callie’s publicist, Ricken. The man responsible for this whole travesty of a funeral. His touch makes me shudder; his voice is seared into my memory like a brand, casting me back in time to the night I learned of Callie’s death.

The coroner calls first. He’s polite and matter-of-fact. Is my name Annelise Redding and is Callie Redfern my sister?

Yes, and yes.

Most of what he says next flows over me like water, except for the phrases that change everything.

There’s been a tragic accident.

You’re the next of kin.

The idea of Callie dead is too surreal for belief. Surely there’s some mistake and she’s still out there in the world, busy being Callie. But the words “I’m sorry for your loss” have been spoken and refuse to be unsaid.

Sleep is out of the question. At least five times I pick up the phone, planning to call the coroner back to ask if there is a mistake, but every time my hands start shaking and I start pacing the floor instead. It occurs to me that a drink might settle my nerves. Getting the cork out of the wine bottle isn’t easy, given the way my hands are behaving, but I manage it in the end.

One glass isn’t enough. I have another. By the time the phone starts ringing again, I’ve stopped counting.

I sit and stare at the unknown number. The area code is 702, which means somewhere in Nevada. Nobody I want to talk to there. No more news I want to hear. The phone stops ringing and I breathe a sigh of relief. But it starts up again almost immediately. Same number. What if it’s Callie, calling to say there was a mistake and she’s alive and well? What if it’s Callie’s daughter?

So I answer. There’s a male voice on the other end, his voice brisk and impatient.

“I’m looking for Annelise Redding.”

“Who is this? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I’m terribly sorry; were you sleeping?”

“What do you want?”

“Is this Annelise?”

“That depends on who’s calling.”

“My name is Ricken. I’m Callie Redfern’s publicist—she left me this number in case of emergency. But if Annelise isn’t available—”

“It’s me. I mean, I’m Annelise.”

“Oh, good. You had me worried there for a minute, since you’re listed as next of kin. I had no idea who to call next.”

Hunching my shoulder to hold the phone against my ear, I go to pour more wine. The bottle is empty. I hold it upside down over my glass and give it a little shake. One lone red drop collects on the lip of the bottle and hangs there.

“I just wanted to let you know we have everything well under control,” Ricken says.

The drop falls, a splotch of color in the bottom of the glass, no more, and I set the bottle down and turn away to the dark window.

“Annelise?”

“I thought I died when I was ten. Car crash, wasn’t it?”

He laughs, like I’ve said something funny. “Show business. You can’t take it personally. I’m sure you’ll agree it would be best to have the funeral here, in Vegas.”

I shake my head, then realize he can’t see that. My mouth feels dry, like sandpaper, and it’s difficult to speak.

“Home is here.”

“Not for Callie.”

This isn’t about Callie, I almost tell him. Just this one time, it’s not about her.

“All of her friends are here,” Ricken says. “And her daughter. I’m sure you can see that Ariel needs to be in her own surroundings now.”

“Our mother can’t travel so far.”

“I understand.” He doesn’t. This man is very bad at even pretend sympathy. “Maybe that’s for the best. Don’t you think it would be kinder to spare her the funeral?”

I figure what he really means is that a drooling old woman vegetating in a wheelchair would be an embarrassment and inconvenience to Callie’s friends. But he has a point. These days, our mother believes that Callie is sixteen and out on a date, when she remembers her at all. What would a funeral do to her? I’ve lost track of Ricken, but he’s still talking.

“Look, of course you want a small-town, simple funeral. But that’s not what Callie would have wanted. I doubt that you would be able to accommodate the security requirements, in any case. Have you thought of that? Fans, other industry professionals. How big is Colville again?”

“You pronounce it like ‘call,’” I tell him, the only argument I can muster. “Callville. Not Coleville.”

“
Call
-ville.” He stretches the vowel out way too far.

Befuddled, shell-shocked, and more than a little drunk, I surrender. “Look, I appreciate you asking for my input, but really—”

“We need your permission.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re next of kin, and Callie’s executrix. We can’t proceed without your say-so, and I’m calling at this unforgivable hour so that I can get started on arrangements. We have a lot of work to do, and not much time.”

I find myself agreeing to let him handle everything, and the next thing I know I’m sitting there listening to a dial tone and thinking that even in death Callie has the ability to turn my whole world upside down and inside out.

“Annelise?”

I blink. Ricken’s head is cocked a little to the side, one eyebrow lifted. Clearly, he wants something. He speaks slowly, enunciating every syllable as though I am deaf or otherwise impaired. “The guests are waiting by the grave. Can I help you up into your seat?”